tis a long while since any thing in the shape of a letter has reachd me from your part of the world. your brother is obstinate either in anger or in system. you are busied in the
concerns of the nation — & I have been — at Oxford the worst place in the world for letter writing. Friday morning. Burnett called me before the clock struck three. up I got — we breakfasted & talked
till five when I departed in the Mail. the folly of my companions taciturnified me — their frigidity of intellect petrified my organs
of voice. his most amorous Majesty was an outside passenger but I could not
approach his person & was silent all the way. the next morning I conveyd my baggage to the inn. & secured a place in the
Caravan newly launched on the plan of your Greenwich machines. [1] this was seven o clock & the coach was to set out at eight. I
walked on leisurely. the morning was warm & when I had got four miles — I sat me down by a brook to wait the coach. the spot was
within a mile of the school where some of my younger days were passed. [2] & upon viewing
the course of the brook I discovered it to the same in which every morning I washed my hands & face. the lapse of twelve years have
not obliterated one image from my memory — & I have seldom past half an hour more agreably in solitude than the one yesterday
morning. the caravan came — in I went — & away to Bristol.

there is something in the recollection of scenes of childhood that give a pleasing melancholy to the mind. I remember
the various hours of alternate gaiety & sorrow, business & play that diversied my time at Corston. on this subject Bowles has written so very
beautiful a sonnet, that I am sure the inserting it will delight you.

The author of this sonnet, tho indisputably one of the first poets of the day, is little known. he was of Trinity
College Oxford. I have only seen his sonnets — they are so scarce that a friend of mine [4] transcribed them, & so beautiful that I have copied his transcription.

now Grosvenor I have two pieces of poetry of a very
different nature to fill up my letter. the first is by an undergraduate whom I saw
at the Anatomy School — physiognomised, & introduced myself to. a man of extraordinary ability.

This translation pleases me much. Charles Collins has met the
author at my rooms & taken a great liking to him. by the by poor Carlo has
met with a grievous misfortune. Don Quixotes library has been purged. Wynn & I — guess whats to come. the Curate & the Barber —
twas a good fire. the book case open. Jack [7] you know is of an
inflammable nature & he burnt well. Wynn & Maule [8] held Signor Carlo on the sofa & I
burnt Jack. next morning Maule carried off La Pucelle [9] & poor Collins has nothing luscious left to amuse himself with except Solomons Song & the
story of Potiphars Wife. [10] we made a most incomparable ballad on the subject. a parody of the Son of
Alknomok [11]

[7] A reference to Johannes Secundus (1511–1536), Liber Basiorum (Book of Kisses), published in 1541. BACK

[8] George Maule (d. 1851), educated at Westminster School and Christ Church (matric. 1793, BA 1797, MA 1800). He was a
friend of Southey’s during his time at Oxford, and possibly during his school days. Maule pursued a legal career, and in 1818 was
made Solicitor to the Treasury. BACK